Made To Be Broken (8 page)

The nerves danced through me like small bolts of electricity having a party at my expense. I was sure I could probably make a lightbulb glow if anyone chose to attach one to me at this point. I didn’t join the job to get myself in front of a bunch of cameras or a crowd of journalists. Including Ethan. I wasn’t sure if it was the fact that I was doing the press conference that was making me so jittery or that Ethan was out there in a chair waiting to throw a question at me at the earliest opportunity. We hadn’t talked since the evening of the inquest. Seeing him again had dredged up all the old feelings I had for him but it had also thrown me into a tailspin. Could I really have expected him to wait for me when it was an impossibility that we could maintain a relationship in the roles we held? It had still knocked me for six when he told me he’d been seeing other people, but I’d done my best to look pleased; was that the right word? Comfortable with it, may be a better way of phrasing it. He’d gone on to clarify that he wasn’t in a relationship but that he’d been dating, he wanted to be open and for me to know.

Well, now I knew.

Could I keep my cool and react to him as I would any of the other journalists or would I glow with this electricity gathering inside me?

On the whole, EMSOU didn’t do many press conferences unless they were a necessity, so the fact that we had called one had sparked interest. The room was full and it was noisy, the journalists and their photographers and cameramen talking among themselves as they waited for someone to appear. Like a pride of lions waiting for its kill.

And I was the gazelle, soon to be caught with nowhere to go.

‘All set?’ asked Claire, looking far too happy. But I couldn’t fault her, it was her default setting and this was her world anyway. She revelled in it, it made her buzz and gave her a permanent smile.

‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Of course you do. We can send them all home and they can make up their own stories.’

‘Okay, okay. I’m just saying.’

‘You’ll be fine. Think of them as a bunch of schoolchildren who are trying to get their teacher’s attention and approval.’

I grinned at her. ‘You’re good.’

‘I know. Now get your arse out there.’

I looked at her.

‘Inspector.’

I smiled again and she winked. I walked out to the single table and chair placed in front of three blue felt boards – the Nottinghamshire police logo prominently displayed, along with the helpline number – to a barrage of flashes and a crescendo of noise. I took a breath and seated myself. The flashes continued. I waited until the noise died down before I spoke.

‘I’m going to read a statement out and will then take questions. I’d ask that you please let me answer them before shouting out any more or we’re just going to have pandemonium.’

The room went quiet other than the continued clicking of cameras. I took a sip of the water from the glass that had been placed on the table.

‘Last week a woman, Lianne Beers, was found dead in her home in Bramcote. Post-mortem evidence has identified cause of death to be a drug overdose. Two days ago a young boy, Finlay McDonnell, died on a bus on the way to school. A post-mortem also found that he had the same drug in his system.’

Camera flashes became louder and seemed brighter in my face.

‘At this present time, we are treating these deaths as suspicious. We don’t know how the poison got into their systems. We don’t know how or if the two victims knew each other. If anyone knows of any link or knows any information that can assist police with our enquiry can they please contact us on the helpline number provided? Thank you.’

I looked out at the shocked but eager faces. I was about to face a barrage of questions.

‘I’ll take some questions now.’

The whole room seemed to be made of arms as a cacophony of noise and arms went up in unison. I didn’t know where to look first. There was no order. Just chaos. Chaos I wasn’t used to handling. I looked to my right and sought out Claire who mouthed
children
at me. I smiled and turned back to the gaggle of
children
in front of me and pointed to the front row.

‘Are you going to tell us what the drug used was?’ A woman I recognised. Short cropped hair, young, minimal make-up, very trendy.

‘At this time, we are withholding that information in the interests of the ongoing investigation.’ More arms were waving at me wildly. ‘By doing so, the public are not at more risk.’ A couple of arms dropped.

Ethan was sitting in the middle of the room, his look serious, arm in the air with the other reporters. I pointed him out. ‘Ethan Gale?’

He paused a moment before speaking. I rubbed one of my damp palms down my trouser leg and kept it there, conscious of fidgeting.

‘Detective Inspector, do you think the death of Finlay McDonnell could have been prevented had you acted more swiftly with Lianne Beers?’

It’s his job. His job, just his job.

My mouth was dry. I swallowed.

‘No.’ I swallowed again, trying to get saliva to my mouth to help it function. This was not a good time for it to fail. ‘I don’t think anything we could have done would have prevented Finlay’s death. The timeframe was too tight. As you can see, we are holding this press conference at the earliest opportunity now we know there is a problem, letting the press and the public know there is an ongoing investigation and we need their help and support.’

His job. That was all. Just his job. 

He was sat in the witness interview room, a square box with a table and four chairs, looking calm and relaxed. An arm draped over the back of the chair. One leg crossed over the other. Not a care in the world.

‘What the hell, Ethan?’ I couldn’t believe he’d had the balls to ask for me.

‘I wanted a quick word.’

‘So you thought asking to see the DI in charge of the investigation after the press conference was the best way to do that?’

‘Han, all they will think is that I’m here trying to get more info from you.’

I sat down in the chair across from him, the thrum of the busy station permeating the door. ‘And what is it you are here for?’

He smiled. ‘I wanted to talk to you properly. I can’t just see you like that, across a room,’ he waved his arm to indicate the distance, ‘and not be able to have a conversation.’

‘But you have to. It’s how it works. It’s our jobs. We’re not in a relationship anymore, Ethan, or did you forget that?’ I certainly hadn’t. I wish I could, this would go so much easier for me if I could.

He sighed. ‘I didn’t forget, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think about you.’

I looked down at the bare wooden desk. Scratch marks scoured into it. Names. Insults. Lasting memories of others seated here before me. ‘Okay.’

‘I know how you tick.’

‘How’s that?’ The thrum quietened.

‘My question. You’ll take it personally.’ I looked at him. Dared him. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘You asked if we were to blame for further deaths. How else am I to take it?’

‘Like a question from a journalist, but then what you’re supposed to do is realise who I am, realise you know me and know how I feel about you and know there’s a difference.’

I missed this man so much. ‘But do I?’

‘Do you what?’

‘Know you?’

He stood. ‘Han, stop thinking with your head, feel that question and let me know the answer if you ever figure it out.’ He picked up his bag. ‘Tell them I was pushing it, looking for an exclusive and you blew me off.’

And with that, he opened the door and walked out.

She was a woman. The report stated a woman was investigating the deaths. DI Hannah Robbins. It was the first time he noticed the name of the investigating officer. But it was the first time the police had stepped out from behind their desks and confronted what was happening. This wasn’t their fight. He had no quarrel with them. His fight, the one he was taking right to their doorstep, was with the pharmaceutical companies.

It was interesting to know her name, though.

To know who was chasing him.

That was a horrible thought. It made him feel bad. Like a criminal. He wasn’t a criminal. He was only after what was right. He was after the giants. For the little man.

For a little girl.

He didn’t need to be chased by the police. By DI Hannah Robbins.

Isaac didn’t like that he had access to the other names. To Lianne and Finlay. He had never wanted to know those names. He had never wanted to know anything about them. They weren’t to enter into this. This was to be about sending a message to pharmaceutical companies through the use of their own failed products. He could distance himself from it all. Buy the goods, contaminate them, place them back in the shops and walk away. Far away. He wasn’t there when anyone was hurt. He didn’t see them, he didn’t know them. He didn’t want to know. He was at home with his grieving wife.

Their own bubble of hopelessness.

He dropped the paper into the large garden bin so Connie wouldn’t read it. Not that she was reading anything any more, but he’d do his best to protect her. He’d failed his daughter so the least he could do was protect Connie from having to think about the real fat cats behind Em’s death. She needed to heal in her own way and she wouldn’t have the energy to fight back. But he was the husband, father, and the protector. He’d do it now.

There was a problem though. The reporter had failed. Ethan Gale.

He hadn’t named the poison used.

Reading the articles was hard, but this would have to continue. Isaac had to get his message out there.

She was about forty feet away from her front door on Petworth Avenue, Toton. Detached houses in a small cul-de-sac. Black Lycra clinging to her body, cerise pink flashes down the sides accentuating toned muscles and a fitness level I wished I possessed. An elasticated iPod armband was wrapped around the top of her left arm and narrow white earphones sneaked out and looped into her ears. Around her waist was a plastic bottle hooked into a belt. I could still hear the beat of whatever music had been driving her as she ran towards what she thought was comfort and safety. Instead, she was face up on the sun-warmed grey concrete pavement, on display. Arms splayed. Head tilted back, rubber shock pads still stuck to her chest and blue gloves on the floor around her where the paramedics had left everything as it was. They’d heard the news reports, as had everyone else, and knew that they needed to leave the scene as intact as they could after they had attempted to save life. I stood over her, horrified at another senseless death. We didn’t know this was a murder yet, but we’d been called out by the uniformed inspector anyway. She was young. Only thirty-six years of age. Not an age you’d expect to die on the way home from a run. One of her neighbours had looked out of their window and had seen that she’d gone down. He’d called the ambulance that had responded quickly, but too late to do anything for her.

My thoughts tumbled through my head as I waited for Jack to attend. Martin and Aaron were talking to neighbours and obtaining details to come back later for longer statements.

What was driving our killer? Because we did have a killer. This was no accident. Not with three suspicious deaths. How could three apparently unconnected people die from digoxin toxicity? Which is a presumption I was making, even though Jack wouldn’t confirm it for me until we had the lab results in, but I knew deep down that this was our killer; this was the job we were already chasing our tails over. How was he targeting his victims?

A deep-voiced screaming followed by further shouting came from the cordon at the end of the road. I turned and saw a man of similar age to the woman on the ground, fighting with two uniformed officers. A car abandoned on the road behind him. He was screaming and yelling, arms flailing, trying to get past the officers and the cordon. I walked towards them and saw Martin and Aaron leave the neighbours they were talking to and walk in the same direction.

He wore a smart shirt and trousers, but you could still see he was a fit man and though his arms were not connecting with the officers, his physique was strong enough to be pushing them further and further into the thin plastic strip of barrier that had been stretched across the road. His emotions were disconnecting his arm functions from his brain and they were just waving about rather than actually doing any good or getting him anywhere. Once broken, I knew he would make a run for it and we couldn’t have this scene compromised any further than the paramedics had done. Which of course they always had to. Saving life came before anything else, but this was different. He was in pain, but we had to stop him, no matter how strong his grief. His eyes were streaming. Tracks littered his face.

‘Angela! Ange! Oh my God. Oh Ange.’

Aaron and I reached the battling threesome simultaneously. I knew his name from the neighbours.

‘Mr Evans?’

‘Angela!’ boots scuffed the road as the two officers tried to keep traction to hold him back. ‘Angela! Oh God. Oh God. No.’

‘Mr Evans. Please. I’m so sorry. You’ll be able to hold her soon enough but first we need to know what has happened to her and there are procedures.’

‘Oh God. Oh Ange.’ The arms had stopped flailing.

‘I’m am genuinely so sorry for your loss.’

He looked at me. Looked at me in my all white protective garb. The garb that says something really bad has happened. Deep, pools for eyes. He stopped pushing the officers and sank down onto his knees.